Just a Sting
by faepunk
Summary: In comparison, it's just a sting.  A tattoo story.


We've taken care of the legalities, the logistics. I've filled out the paperwork, shown my identification and sworn to my sobriety. Now we get down to the real business. The dirty part. The painful part.

"I have a design, and I need it copied exactly. Exactly." My eyes meet the artist's, a pretty woman, around my age, black hair, with a tattoo on her neck and a ring through her nose. She introduces herself as Syd.

She's curious, I can tell. Probably not every day a man comes through here dressed in Armani. "Can I see the design?" she asks.

When I hand it over, her eyes get wide. She studies it, her eyes sweeping over the hundreds, thousands, of tiny details I have put into the tattoo. I wonder, paranoid for a moment, if she sees my plan. She looks up at me.

"This is amazing," she says. There is wonder in her voice. "I've done hundreds of tattoos, but this…this is a first."

"There's more," I say. Her eyebrows raise almost to her hairline.

"How much?" she asks.

"Two arms, back, and chest," I reply.

"You're getting a full shirt with sleeves?" she says. Her voice raises half an octave. I catch her studying my clothing again. My briefcase. Leather. Very businesslike. I know; I'm not the type.

"And I need it fast," I reply.

"How fast?" she asks, still studying me. Her left hand drums on the counter absentmindedly. I wonder if she realizes.

"Four months," I reply. Down to the day, it cannot take any longer. Every single thing, every single step, is planned. It must be done.

She shakes her head. "No way. It can't be done."

"What do you mean, it can't be done?" I ask. My research says it can. Many hours of research, on pain tolerance, on tattoos, on all sorts of things. I have prepared; I am ready. I know it can be done. It must be done. Or all is lost.

"I mean, the pain, the work…that's around 200 hours of work there." She looks at me. "That's years of work!"

"Can you do it?" I ask. "I'm paying cash. Can you do it in four months?"

She looks at me. "It's going to hurt like nothing you've ever—"

"Can you do it, or do I go somewhere else?" I ask, impatient. Each time she says this, is another second this tattoo could be inscribed on my body.

"I can do it," she replies. "But you're going to—"

"So let's do it." I stare at her. She nods, finally. I can read it in her eyes: she thinks I am crazy. Fine. Maybe I am.

"All right. Follow me."

I follow her into a separate room, dark walls, but bright lighting, clean and sterile. She looks at me. "Give me the pattern for your back," she says. I do, and she walks off without another word.

I swallow hard, feeling my Adam's apple bob in my throat. I'm doing this. After this, there's no turning back. No point in turning back. I will be marked forever. I'm doing this.

I take off my suit jacket and drape it on a chair. She comes back, holding something. "Take off your shirt and lay down flat on the table," she says. I do as she asks, laying flat. "Arms at your sides," she says, and then she's putting something on my back.

"What's that?" I ask. It's wet and cold, and I suppress a shiver.

"I'm applying a temporary version of the tattoo to your back; I'll trace over it so it's identical to the design." I shut my eyes, feeling her apply water to my back, bit by bit. Occasionally, some drips down my side, and I clench my jaw so my body doesn't shake.

It seems to take forever before she peels the sheet of paper off my back. "Okay, stand up. Check it out in the mirror, make sure it's what you want."

She gestures at a large mirror on the wall, and I walk over to it. She's only applied the bottom quarter of the tattoo.

"Where's the rest?" I ask.

"I certainly won't be able to do more than this at one shot," she replies. "This is rather ambitious, actually. I'll apply it as I go."

I look again. It's exactly as I planned. Dark. Crisp, clean…perfect. "That's it," I say, and a smile comes to my mouth.

"Okay," she replies. "Lay down. And make sure you're comfortable, and in a natural position; you won't be able to move for awhile."

I lay down again, and listen to her as she prepares. None of the sounds are familiar to me; I've never been in a tattoo parlor before. And then there's the snap of a rubber glove, the buzzing noise of the tattoo gun.

"All right. Here we go," she says. I take a deep breath.

And she's right; it hurts. It feels like she's cutting me with a razor blade, over and over, sharp slices. Over the vertebrae of my spine, it's sheer agony. I clench my teeth together, refusing to allow myself so much as a squeak of pain. It burns.

But it's nothing. Nothing, compared to the pain of losing Lincoln. Nothing, compared to the pain of watching my brother, my innocent brother, die for a crime he didn't commit. Nothing, compared to having nothing at all. Compared to losing my family.

It's just a sting.


End file.
